Stay With Me Read Free Page A

able to answer that question. As close as she’d come to finally finding her sister, she still knew nothing about Clea—not from an investigative standpoint anyway. In her journal, Clea never mentioned last names. And on top of that, Clea was so given to bouts of fantasy, Brenna never could be sure which entries were real and which were 1980s-style fan fiction . . .
    But Brenna did have this journal, which for whatever reason was enough to yank her out of her memories. She didn’t need any of the things she used to rely on—rubber bands snapping against her wrists, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or the Lord’s Prayer, digging her fingernails into her palms or squeezing her eyes shut like someone in the throes of seizure. All Brenna needed now to stay anchored in the present was the weight of this journal in her hands, the blue faux leather cover, gold-embossed with “My Diary.” All she needed was her sister’s handwriting, the loops and swirls of it, the bright blue and purple and red ink and all those capital letters and exclamation points, all that barely contained teenage excitement, running up and down the pages. Proof of life, Clea’s life.
    Maybe that was enough.
    The waiting room door pushed open. Brenna closed the journal and dropped it back into her bag and looked up at Maya, Dr. Lieberman standing behind her, a benign smile taped to his face.
    “All better?” Brenna winced. “Did I really just say that?”
    Maya said, “Yes. Out loud. Unfortunately.”
    Lieberman smiled. “Your daughter takes after you.”
    “Don’t tell her that. She’ll cry.”
    Maya said nothing. Brenna watched her face. Ever since Maya had asked to see a shrink, Brenna had found herself doing that—staring at her daughter the way you’d stare at a kaleidoscope, looking for the slightest shift in the clear blue eyes.
    Lieberman patted Maya on the shoulder. “She has your dry sense of humor, Brenna—that’s what I meant,” he said. “Maybe next week, we’ll get past the jokes and start talking.”
    Like his waiting room, the doctor had changed very little in the past twenty years. He still had the pinkish cheeks, the toothy smile, the kind, easy voice. Lieberman had always reminded Brenna of an oversized rabbit come to life, and that was even more pronounced now, with his hair gone mostly white.
    Brenna looked at Lieberman’s tie. Mustard yellow, with little hot dogs and hamburgers all over it. Yep, the fashion sense hadn’t changed, either.
    “That okay with you?” she asked Maya.
    Maya cracked a smile. A hopeful little smile, nothing sarcastic about it, and for a moment, Brenna was dropping her off for her first day of kindergarten—Maya in her pink corduroy jeans and her purple and pink plaid T-shirt, her pink sneakers from Old Navy and her furry orange coat—an outfit she’d chosen herself. Maya hugging Brenna good-bye on the steps of PS 102, Maya smelling of strawberry shampoo, soft yellow hair at Brenna’s cheek, the glass doors looming so big behind her . . .
    “Chamomile,” Dr. Lieberman was saying to Maya, his voice yanking Brenna back from that morning, that sweet, pink morning. It had been September 4, 2001—exactly one week before the attacks—but at the time, it was just another date for Brenna to remember, one among thousands jammed into her head and significant only as a start. A good start.
    My daughter, growing up . . .
    “Yeah,” Maya said. “I like all kinds of tea.”
    Brenna turned to find Maya watching her.
    “Try a cup of chamomile before you go to sleep, with a teaspoon of honey and some milk,” Dr. Lieberman said.
    Brenna cleared her throat. “Why?”
    “Maya’s been having a little insomnia,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”
    “I didn’t know that,” Brenna said to Maya.
    Her gaze dropped to the floor.
    “See you next week,” Lieberman said. “Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.”
    “Huh?”
    Brenna said, “That line wasn’t even timely when he said it